Greater Love Hath No Man
by junkerey
Summary: Post-Magnussen shooting, pre-Mycroft's meeting. Mycroft visits Sherlock in prison.


"Here be dragons."

Mycroft Holmes froze. The steady fall of his footsteps ceased as the familiar words echoed around the jail cell, and a slight tremble went through his lean body. He pressed his lips together and tried to ignore the unexpected brush with his feelings-which he always kept so carefully in check, tucked away like the perfectly-folded, starched handkerchief in his breast pocket-then forced his feet to move forward again.

The pause in his steps did not escape the attention of Sherlock Holmes, however. Lying down, back to the door and with his face to the wall, the detective picked up his head and gave it a slight tilt.

"Is that a moment of regret that I hear?" he asked in a monotone. "Those were your exact words, brother. Were they not?"

With some effort, Sherlock managed to turn over on the narrow bunk, lower his bare feet over the edge and pull himself upright into a sitting position-no mean feat, given the white jacket that restrained his arms and tied at the back. His dark hair hung over his forehead in a messy cascade of curls, and his pale skin had become somewhat blotchy from the lack of proper circulation. The garment's uncomfortable warmth had created a thin layer of sweat across his face and neck. Dark circles of sleeplessness lay below his heavy-lidded eyes.

Mycroft stopped walking and stood several feet away from him. He blinked.

"Sherlock," he said in a soft yet stern voice. "At no point will I tolerate the insinuation that you killed a man on my orders, or even at my suggestion. This was by your hand and your hand only, and I had no connection to that action. I won't stand for it. I will not."

"Oh, come now. I didn't kill a _man_," Sherlock corrected him.

The energetic tone of his brother's voice, so different than the monosyllabic, empty voice which he'd used since being taken into custody, gave Mycroft mild relief, and he let his tense facial expression relaxed a bit. By contrast, Sherlock's face took on an angrier, more determined look.

"I killed the lowest life form that this planet has to offer," he corrected him. "I took the life of a creature that used a mind greater than my own to corrupt and to kill, using nothing more than rumor and suspicion. Charles Augustus Magnussen will cause no more harm now. And yes, you are off the hook. What I did, I did of my own free will." Sherlock let out a slight chuckle. "There. That should be enough of a legal statement to include in my case. I do hope you write it down on my behalf." He squirmed slightly. "I'd do it for you, but I'm a bit engaged at the moment."

Mycroft gave a sharp shake of his head. "You have crossed a line. This is no time to be funny. Can you, for one moment, recognize the serious consequences of your decision?"

"If anything, I could use a good joke right about now." Sherlock sighed. "You speak as if I don't fully understand the nature of my crime," he admonished his brother. "I do. In fact, I have sacrificed everything that I have ever worked for, every relationship that I have ever engaged myself in, and all that I was taught about right and wrong. All to do what had to be done, and what no one else had the reserve to do. Not even you." He paused, then glared at Mycroft with flat gray eyes and suddenly leaned forward with a jerk. _"Iceman!" _he hissed in a loud, vicious manner, his mouth an ugly, downturned slash. It took all of Mycroft's reserve not to flinch as Sherlock fell his knees on the floor, narrowing the distance between the two of them. But they did not touch.

The word echoed cruelly off the harsh walls of the cell, and then silence descended on the room. Mycroft shuddered again in a delayed reaction. Sherlock's face cleared, to be replaced by an expression of satisfaction as he struggled to regain his seat.

"You felt fear there, didn't you?" he inquired.

"I did," Mycroft replied with obvious discomfort.

"Perhaps you can try and stop believing the cruel rumors of others, then. You are not without emotion. This latest event with Magnussen should have proved that quite soundly. I would be dead now, had you not given the order not to shoot."

He drew one unsteady hand across his forehead and cleared his throat. "You should know that your blood work came back clean. No trace of narcotics. No illegal drugs whatsoever."

"As I told you it would. Of course, you doubted me. As you always doubt me." Sherlock glanced down at himself. "So is this the only way that you can help my situation? To have the authorities question my mental state and restrain me for observation?"

"It bought you some time and put you safely in isolation. I should think you'd be grateful for that."

He hummed. "A straight jacket. I think that next Christmas, we should get them for the whole family. A fitting gift. Although perhaps not for Father. He's always been more the jumper type. Usually something of a loud color and with an animal on it."

"He was into the 'ugly sweater' phenomenon before anyone," Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock released a slight chuckle, then turned earnest eyes on Mycroft. "But you know I've not gone mad-not temporarily or in some post-traumatic breakdown. This has not been a pleasant experience on my psyche, I grant you, but it has not broken me, either. Besides, it does not take a madman to kill. Perfect, stone-cold sanity works much better."

"Ask any murderer such as yourself, eh?"

Sherlock gave the equivalent of a shrug through the jacket and looked away.

Mycroft paused. "_Are_ you all right?"

Likewise, Sherlock paused. "No, I can't say that I am." He stared past Mycroft at the closed cell door, then his attention riveted on the metal bars over the windows. "Magnussen haunts me. Not his face, not his voice, but his movements. His profile in the light of the helicopter as I put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The feel of the recoil. The way his head moved as the bullet hit him. The way his useless body collapsed onto the patio. Again and again, I see him fall and feel the vibration of the gun in my hand. He died too easily."

"Far too easily than he deserved, perhaps? In your opinion. Not mine, of course."

Sherlock gave a desperate glance up to his brother. "Mycroft, don't you get it? I understand firsthand how it's done now. Killing. How… how effortlessly I can snuff out a man's life. And it hurts me, Mycroft. Because do you know how quickly and easily it all came together for me? You saw it. You were there, in the helicopter, telling us to stand away from him. That was when Magnussen said to me, 'No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes.' Then your voice rang in my ears again, but I didn't hear 'stand away' echoing out of a speaker across the grounds. I heard you and I, out front of our parent's cottage, smoking and talking casually of how I think of myself as a dragonslayer. And I knew then that I could finally embrace what I am, and use it." He paused. "I am a highly-functioning sociopath. That is what I am, and it is what I have always been. It is. Can't you see it?"

"I see it, Sherlock," he whispered. "And it terrifies me. It terrifies me… for you. For what you must have to live with from this day forward."

Mycroft adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, then tugged at his jacket sleeves.

"You should know that your situation is rather up in the air right now. The seriousness of your crime is not affected by the fact that Magnussen's own reputation has been revealed to be extremely odious. I think you have your former fiancée, Janine, to thank for that. Amazing how much bad press Magnussen received merely an hour after the news of his death was announced."

"Revenge has strange forms," Sherlock murmured.

"You were crying," Mycroft interrupted abruptly. "After you shot Magnussen. That is not a sociopath's response to getting his way. Nor was it for show, to gain sympathy. I've seen enough individuals manipulate others through the use of lies and even tears to know the difference. Now, how do you explain your reaction?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

Mycroft knelt down and put two fingers under Sherlock's chin, then tilted his head up and studied his sweat-streaked face.

"And you've _been_ crying. Here, alone, with no one to impress and no one to influence."

Still, Sherlock refused to open his eyes. "You think I can't feel regret?"

"Oh, I think you can, but regret for what? Whom? Regret for yourself, for not ending Magnussen's life sooner, when no one was watching? Towards Watson, for having to witness your transformation from the white knight to the stained warrior? Or in defense of Mary, perhaps?"

"You." Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "It was regret for _you_. I forced you to chase me down, and I forced you to witness what I did."

"Or so you thought at the time, perhaps?" Mycroft released him and hooked one arm over his bent knee. "Bringing Billy Wiggins to an intimate family gathering was showing your hand, little brother."

Sherlock tilted his head a bit. "Yes. The fact that you mentioned the punch as we had our cigarettes was the first clue to me that you suspected something was up. And I knew when I left the cottage that you weren't fully drugged. Our parents' breathing was low and steady, but natural. Yours was forced. You'd had enough of the punch at Christmas dinner to feel its effects, but not to give in completely to it. But I didn't want to call you on it."

A quick smile flittered across Mycroft's face before he smoothed out his expression again.

"But I deceived you," Sherlock insisted. "I endangered your career along with my own-"

"The laptop was empty, Sherlock," he chastised him gently. "Well, almost. I certainly don't carry any more information with me than is necessary, and no more than I'm willing to lose. That would be a gross dereliction of national security procedures on my part, having a laptop full of secrets about. The GPS is really all I needed. It lead me right to you, and to Magnussen. So if anything, _I_ deceived _you_."

"I didn't know that, but he did. He knew that police would arrive shortly."

Mycroft nodded. "It took no time, of course. I had but to wait for your helicopter to leave before calling my own. It was all pre-conceived. No need to weep for me."

"Yes, there was." A soft look came into Sherlock's eyes. "The last two words I said to Magnussen were, 'Merry Christmas.' But I never said them to you."

Mycroft grew silent and looked away.

"When we spoke, you steered me away from the undercover job that would have taken my life in six month's time. You said, 'Your loss would break my heart' and 'Merry Christmas.' I didn't wish you one in return. And yet, those were the last two words that I ever said to Magnussen. Just before I destroyed that masterful brain of his with a bullet. As if he were the one doing me the favor." Sherlock's voice caught in his throat, and Mycroft looked away. "Though perhaps he was. He showed me what I really am. And now I've lost you."

Mycroft pulled his lips in and stood up, turning his back to Sherlock as he approached the cell door.

"Our parents," Sherlock continued in a sad tone, "they'll forgive me. I know that. Watson was right beside me, and he knows what we were up against. He and Mary will understand. But you? I saw the horror of it in your face, Mycroft. There is no denying it. I have put you through hell on earth time and again, but until now, I have never truly broken your heart."

Mycroft half-looked over one shoulder. "For the first time in your life, Sherlock, you took a step in a direction to where I cannot help you. For the sake of my own situation, I must keep back. Keep my distance. Keep my objectivity, and put the British government ahead of family."

"I understand."

Mycroft faced forward again, his eyes shut tight against the quiet, calm response of his brother.

"That's the hell of it. I know you do." He quickly spun around and stared at his brother, one pointed finger raised in protest. "But don't you dare… don't you _ever dare_ to presume to _KNOW MY MIND_!"

The reverberations of his unexpected shout caused Sherlock to tremble and hunch his shoulders. Mycroft slowly lowered his hand.

"I want to make it all go away," Mycroft said in a faint voice. "To carry you out of here in my arms, and take you far away from here. But I can't. Perhaps if I'd listened to you earlier, I could have prevented this. I knew you had Magnussen on your radar. I knew of your meeting with him, and the deal you struck. I brought his death with my inactions and procrastinations just as surely as you did with Watson's gun. Had I put you first instead of my perceived notions of what was good for the country, I could have kept you from the nightmares that plague you now. But I did not." He turned his back to Sherlock. "So, you see? You haven't broken my heart, dear brother. I have done it to myself. I have made my own hell."

He pounded on the door with his fist to be let out, and a few moments later, a guard came and unlocked the door. As the metal door swung open, Mycroft stepped out of the way, then turned and looked at Sherlock again-the perfect picture of composure.

"I'll keep you informed of how the proceedings go," he said in a light, breezy tone. His face showed none of the sentiment nor emotion that it had only a brief time before. "Your observation should end in seven hours, and then you'll be taken back to a regular holding cell. Pray, don't act up again. The straightjacket they strapped you in was but a warning. I'm sure the guards will be much less cooperative next time that you try to outwit them. Happy new year, Sherlock," he called as he stepped into the hallway.

"Happy new year, Mycroft," came the faint reply.


End file.
